What a Spell Can't Fix
by greenleaf-in-bloom
Summary: OotP spoilers. After the Leaving Feast, Ron finds the dormitory empty. Can't summarize more without spoiling things.
1. It Begins

What A Spell Can't Fix  
  
Ron was the first back into the dormitory. Seamus, Dean, and Neville were still in the common room, talking, and Harry hadn't turned up at the feast - probably anticipating the speech, and rightly. Hermione and Ginny had both been crying by the end, and Ron had seen Dumbledore's eyes linger sorrowfully on the empty seat at the Gryffindor table.  
  
Harry hadn't truly packed, either - a few things had been carelessly pitched into his trunk, and Ron could even see shards of glass beneath a few dirty socks. Had he broken his Sneakoscope? No, there was too much glass, and it was too flat. A mirror? Harry didn't have a mirror.  
  
Decisively, figuring that he could break it again if necessary, he waved his wand and muttered, "Reparo!"  
  
The pieces flung themselves back together. Sure enough, a handsome, important-looking mirror lay atop the small pile of socks. Ron picked it up, puzzled. He turned it over, and his eyes widened as he read and reread the hasty message on the back.  
  
Quite suddenly and brutally, Ron understood.  
  
He lay the mirror at the bottom of the trunk, and carefully folded each of the items of clothing, laying them in the trunk so neatly Hermione would have been proud. Then he turned to the bedside table hesitantly - it seemed sort of wrong, Harry could have personal things there that he didn't want Ron to see.  
  
With a sigh of resolution, he started to lay items on top of the clothing. Then something caught his eye, and he froze, staring at it.  
  
A photograph album lay opened to a certain picture, and from it Ron watched Sirius wave madly from next to Lily and James Potter.  
  
His breath caught in his throat, and he saw damp spots on the page.  
  
There was a knock at the door, and Professor McGonagall's voice called out quietly, "Potter?"  
  
Ron moved to the door and opened it. The Professor blinked.  
  
"He's not here," Ron said flatly.  
  
"Oh," she said, looking decidedly put out. "Well, I've finally managed to get him his Firebolt. Could you give it to him?"  
  
Ron nodded and took it carefully, moving over and setting it by the trunk. McGonagall stood for a moment and then said, in a soft, decided voice, "How is he taking it?"  
  
Ron looked over at her. "Not too well," he said finally. "I mean, Sirius was." Unable to finish, he looked at the floor, embarrassed.  
  
McGonagall made an indistinct sound, and Ron got a sudden impression that she'd been talking about something else. Perhaps not. What else could there be?  
  
She nodded, and looking suddenly flustered reached into her pocket and pulled something out.  
  
It was a Snitch, for the moment still and lifeless. She looked up and stretched out the hand that held it. "This.ought to mean something to him," she said, voice suddenly strained. "Put them in his trunk, will you?" And there were two notes as well, neither of them in McGonagall's handwriting, but one in the same script that was on the back of the mirror, and the other that Ron recognized from the chalkboard in the Potions dungeon and the one that had scrawled a "P" on his moonstone essay. That seemed like years ago.  
  
Ron nodded mutely, and Professor McGonagall left.  
  
He finished packing Harry's things and had a feeling that his best friend wouldn't notice that his trunk had been dealt with.  
  
But then, he thought as he closed the photo album and lay it gently in the trunk, as he pushed the notes and the Snitch to the bottom of the trunk, as he added to them one of his own, as Dean and Neville and Seamus came in and Harry did not, there were some things a spell couldn't fix. 


	2. Finality

What a Spell Can't Fix  
  
A.N. Thank you, reviewers. Well, I suppose this is Part Two, which I separated from Part One simply for the purpose of purposelessness. OK? Disclaimer, yeah, yeah, I don't own anyone, anything, or anywhere. From this story, at least.  
  
Part Two  
  
He hadn't found the letters until the second week of the holidays, and even then it had been three days before he had opened any of them.  
  
The Snitch had captivated his attention, too, and he wondered who had stolen it for him. Certainly it had not been there when he packed his trunk - but then, he thought suddenly, he hadn't packed his trunk. A small, sad smile flitted breifly across his face. Ron. Oh, thank you, Ron.  
  
But he recognized the scrawls on all three notes and wondered for three days. He could throw them away - but never know. He could read them - but it would hurt. So he busied himself with practicing Quidditch with that Snitch, and writing every two to three days to Tonks or Lupin or Moody.  
  
Finally he told the pain to screw itself. He was going to read the notes.  
  
And oh, they hurt.  
  
Dear Harry,  
  
I hope you never read this, because if you do it will mean that I've been sent back to Azkaban, or been given the Kiss, or that something else happened and I'm not going to be able to talk to you anymore.  
  
First, I want you to know that, officially, Grimmauld Place is yours now. I left it to you, stating you as my not-quite-legal-but-still-official charge. If I'm sent to prison or otherwise unable to return, my statement of wills will come into effect. The house and everything in it are in the possession of a Mr. Harry J. Potter. When you come of age, you can move there and give Kreacher a good kick for me.  
  
Secondly, this is the only note of this sort that I'm writing - the only just-in-case, so I'd like you to pass on some messages for me, if you don't mind.  
  
I don't know the circumstances under which you're reading this, but I do hope that Dumbledore will help it find its way to you. I'll start off here with Remus - please, tell him I'm sorry for leaving him - because I think the only way in which you'll ever read this will be if I leave Grimmauld Place, so it will have been my choice and I won't do it without reason. So tell him it wasn't meaningless, and tell him that friends last a lifetime and brothers last longer.  
  
Tonks - Nymphadora - she's the last member of my family worth anything, and if she ever needs help, Harry, a place to stay, make sure she has it. Tell her to do her best, and that I'm sure she'll make a better Auror than I could ever have been. And please tell her not to make her hair look like Snape's ever again. That was frightening.  
  
Phineas is really the only other person left, and I doubt that he's very happy with me, knowing that I will be unable to - let's say, let the Black blood live on. Tell him that blood isn't everything, but it must be an awful lot to him if he cared about a Gryffindor. And tell him thanks, will you?  
  
Harry. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. If you ever read this, ever, I've got another piece of probably meaningless information for you. In my room, upstairs, under a loose floorboard against the east wall, is a small vial. It's five drops of my blood, preserved properly. If you cut your wrist and use a charm or something to make sure that my blood is mixed with your own. Then the house - you'll know what I mean, trust me - will obey you. Old magic.  
  
I love you. You're the closest thing I'll ever have to a son, to someone to care for, and I owe you my life, although if you read this it will be nothing.  
  
Under that floorboard, there are also some things I think you might find interesting, and their keys. The Waffling Watch - your father's invention, that! - and a list of useful spells for school that might be best retreived immediately. There are also a few letters that James wrote me before he died. When I was sent to Azkaban Remus got them, but he returned them to me and I put them there for safekeeping.  
  
I don't want you to grieve, Harry. If I'm in Azkaban I won't last there long - I vowed I would never return, and I won't be able to escape. If I'm dead - I don't think that you're reading this because I've been given the Kiss, because I'd sooner kill myself - then I'm not running anymore, and I'm not hiding, and I'm with your parents, and I'm at peace with whatever has happened. Because you're not alone - you have your own Marauders, Ron and Hermione - and perhaps Ginny, as well, eh? You're not alone and you never will be, because I'm always here. Damn. I don't know what I have to say. I can't put into words what you mean to me.  
  
Love,  
  
Sirius  
  
This was the first one Harry read, unable to help himself, and he cried for the longest time afterwards. Sirius didn't want him to grieve, but who could help it? There was no escaping the tears.  
  
The next letter was not as saddening, and not as painful, but perhaps as touching.  
  
Dear Harry,  
  
I don't know when you'll read this. I just wanted you to know a few things.  
  
One of them is that I'm sorry. Sirius meant something to all of us, at least, but he was everything to you, I know. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I should have been there for you, but I was too stupid and too slow. I know that you feel responsible, but you aren't. You aren't, Harry. It could never have been your fault, and I've heard all about what happened and I still agree. But it wasn't Dumbledore's fault either, or Sirius', of course, or even Snape's, although all of them have connections to it. So do you, and so do I, and so does everyone. But it's none of our faults. We know whose fault it is. Voldemort's. The Lestrange woman's. Never yours. Never.  
  
I want you to know how much you mean to Hermione and I. You're practically my brother, but you mean at least as much to me as any of them do, and I need you to know that.  
  
I'd also like to thank you. If you hadn't taught me all that you did about Defense Against the Dark Arts, well, I wouldn't be around to write this to you. Something odd happened, when we were running, and I found something out. Something that's, to quote Hermione, 'actually theoretically impossible'.  
  
My Patronus, Harry? It's you.  
  
Your friend, always,  
  
Ron  
  
He cried after that one, too. Not as hard perhaps, or with as much feeling or reason. But he cried. The words toward the end of the letter were wonderful and painful. It's you. And despite his tears, Harry managed to smile.  
  
The next letter made him think, and puzzled him.  
  
Potter -  
  
You may think it strange, receiving a letter from me. No, this is not a letter in which I tell you the truth about things, or in which I renounce any grudge I have against you. Certainly not. Little as I like to admit it, Mr. Potter, this letter is an apology.  
  
I will not lie to you. Yes, I hate you. I hated your father. I hated your godfather. Nonetheless, I feel honor-bound to give you an apology - to do any less would be below me.  
  
I am not saying that I believe my actions were not justified, certainly, but that justification is not everything. You had no right to look into my past as you did, but perhaps now you have a taste of my point of view - not that I ever wished to give it to you. Certainly now you cannot deny that your father's head was rather overinflated.  
  
I should not have stopped giving you Occlumency lessons. It was a mistake to do this, and it cost your godfather's life. For this, I am sorry beyond anything I can say, for much as I detested and loathed him I know that he need not have died. You were actually quite a promising student in Occlumency - I do not think any student of your age could have fought against my probing as well as you did, but I had hoped that you would do better. I feel certain that you must not have enjoyed having me search through your memories, but I cannot say I am sorry for that now. Perhaps now I understand you more, although it changes little. I am sure that Dumbledore will be a better teacher, if he chooses to take up the role. I feel responsible for Sirius Black's death, and I know that he was part of the reason that you are alive today to defy the Dark Lord - and thusly part of the reason that I am alive.  
  
Professor Severus Snape  
  
Which left Harry wondering how much had really changed, after all.  
  
At the bottom of his trunk, Harry found the mirror, in perfect condition, and began to form a plan in his mind.  
  
But that is a tale for another day, perhaps, another time, and I do not know the outcome. 


End file.
